


The Boneless

by Lhugy_for_short



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed Valhalla
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon Divergence - Ivarr lives, Canon Rewrite, Gen, Ivarr POV, Rated for violence and general crazy, Violence, at least he's fun crazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:54:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28080498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lhugy_for_short/pseuds/Lhugy_for_short
Summary: Ivarr can see the changes brewing in his brother's mind and heart, and vows to keep them both on the path to Valhalla no matter the cost.(Ivarr the Boneless POV on the events of ACValhalla, from the Repton arc to the Sciropescire arc - contains spoilers)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	1. The Conquest of Repton

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I have a confession to make. I started playing AC Valhalla, it was going great, then BAM! Ubisoft hit me with the glorious shitshow that is Ivarr Ragnarsson. I love him. I'm a little obsessed with him. He's the best thing since sliced bread. 
> 
> That being said, this is purely self-indulgent Ivarr character exploration fic. It isn't historically accurate, and I haven't even finished the game yet so don't @ me. I'm not saying he's a good person, he's just really well written andalsoreallyhotsueme. 
> 
> Prepare for filth, violence, and lots of mead. 
> 
> And axes. Can't forget axes.

Flames lit the night sky. Brilliant, monstrous red, dancing over the thatched roofs and sunken boards alike. The air hung heavy with the stench of blood and sweat and piss. The odors of battle, of a swift victory in which Death lingered in the shadows waiting to claim its carrion feast. 

Ivarr son of Ragnar rolled his shoulders to ease the tension there. It felt like ages since his last fight - a _proper_ fight, not those damn brawls the men at camp started out of boredom. He'd missed this. Truly missed the acrid taste of copper in his mouth and the wails of dying men heating his veins. He'd missed the weight of the axe in his hand, dripping crimson onto the already bloodstained soil below. It was perfect. _This moment_ was perfect. Almost as if he were back among the snow covered peaks of his homeland. 

But this was not his home.

 _Repton_ , someone had called this sorry excuse for an English town. To Ivarr, it seemed better suited for the pigs than for worshipping a god, but what did he know of the Christian ways? Maybe they enjoyed wallowing in the muck and praising their spineless Christ with filthy hands. They certainly died that way, and easily, too. No fight in them, crying for their savior even as they watched the hatchet fall. Fucking Saxons, he sneered. Maybe they were more pig than human after all. 

"Brother!" A sudden shout rang over the crackling of hungry flames, and Ivarr turned to meet it. There, Ubba stood at the top of a small ridge. He was waving one large arm in the direction of the town's bell, an old shell of bronze long rusted with disuse and hanging from a rickety frame. _So what?_ Ivarr, missing the point, scratched at his scalp. 

"The rope! Cut the rope!" 

_Ah._ Now he could see the little Saxon piggy running for it, a clumsy silhouette stumbling up the planks to ring out their despair. He'd pull the rope - _ding, dong, ding_ \- and more swine would slither out of the muck to come to their aid. It'd be amusing to see them try. Probably. At least to him. But even from a distance Ubba's eyes were fierce with command. 

_Stop him now!_

Oh, well. His brother had never shared his ideas of fun anyway. 

"So long, piggy," Ivarr grinned as he launched his axe through the air. It flew forward, spinning in a clean, practiced arc across the distance between them, honing in on the desperate Saxon as if the claws of Fenrir himself. The fool never saw it coming. The axe's blade struck true, burying itself deep between the man's shoulder blades. He was dead before his limp frame even hit the ground. 

A resounding cacophony of cheers bellowed through the burning, empty town. Boots began to stamp the ground, shuddering wood and brick with the force of an earthquake. The Ragnarssons had won this battle. Repton, shithole though it was, belonged to them, and with this victory came the first step to dominion over all of Mercia. At least, that was the plan. Personally, Ivarr didn't give two shits about puppet kings or titled lords bickering over stinking farmlands. Leave Ubba to handle the politics; all he wanted was to lead their warriors across the bloodied fields. 

"Skal! Skal! They fall before us like saplings in a raging tempest!" 

"Victory is ours!" 

"Speech, Ubba! Speech!" 

Amidst the cheering and still-burning homes, the men called for their leader. All eyes turned to him. All except Ivarr, whose rolled instead at the display. What need did he have for words at a time like this? The fire in his blood was enough. Listening would only serve to cool it. 

As his brother pounded his shield and waggled his tongue, Ivarr slipped through the crowd toward the frame in which the town's bell still hung. It remained unmarred, no blood or tears had risen to reach it, though the same could not be said for the wood at its base. 

Blood pooled on the planks beneath the body of the man he'd felled. He admired it as he approached, the way thick rivers of black-red flowed along the grain. Beautiful, really, an art all its own, born of death by, if he did say so himself, a damn fine throw. A whistle as his fingers found the smooth, familiar handle of his axe. It held firm under his touch, lodged too deep in flesh and bone to come away so easily as that. Ivarr smiled, and planted his boot on the slain piggy's neck. 

Ubba's speech ended just as he found his grip. Droplets of still-warm blood spattered across the grass. With a grunt, Ivarr yanked free his weapon, stumbling back off the corpse mostly for affect. "I feel _good!_ " he proclaimed, raising his arms and laughing for the benefit of the warriors nearest to him. " _Fuck_ these gutless, honorless worms, eh? If this is the best Mercia has to offer, I say we burn the rest of it down right now!" 

A few grins found their way to him in answer, as well as stern gazes. Among the latter, Ubba, who folded his arms over his broad chest in order to regard his brother. "Taking Repton was only the first step, Ivarr. We ought not raze the land, we must settle it. Build upon it. For that, we'll need the help of those who know it best. You, there," he said to one of the younger warriors in the crowd. "Search these houses for survivors. You, gather the farmers from the outlying fields, and bring them here to begin their work." 

" _Work?_ What need do we have for more pigs when we just slaughtered the entire pen?" Ivarr stared, perplexed, up at the face of his brother. A face he had begun not to recognize these past weeks. "Kill them and be done with it. This is _our_ land now - _Nord_ land. They have no right to it." 

"Ivarr, this was the plan. You know that. We need the cooperation of the local kings in order to--"

" _Balls_ to your whimpering kings, brother!" He spat on the ground, scowling. "They should be begging us to send them swiftly to meet their lonely god. Or their eternal hell, whatever awaits them. It's not for us to judge, only to deliver the final _axe!"_

"Enough, Ivarr! Help us, or get out of my sight. I have no time for your brooding tonight. Men, the fires need putting out. Grab what valuables you can from the--" 

He was no longer listening. Once again, Ubba had spoiled the mood, drenched the fires of battlelust with his need for plans, plans, _fucking plans._ Is this what England did to the weak willed? Made them soft, made them stupid? Was his brother letting the wood grubs eat away at his brain, while he slowly forgot the ways of their own people? 

Anger rode the waves of his violence, carrying him swiftly away from the plaza and the bustle of labor. It was _wrong_. They should be celebrating their victory in a warm hall. Feasting on the spoils from their enemies' larders, drinking from their casks. Dancing upon their land so that their ancestors in their graves might know the shame of defeat. 

His fury spilled over, unbridled as ever. Ivarr hacked at a nearby fence with his axe until thousands of splinters littered the muddy ground. Useless, futile. Like his rage. He moved on as a different heaviness settled in his heart. 

Ubba. The fool. They were both sons of the legendary Ragnar Lothbrok, were they not? Together, they had been raised in the icy rivers and fjords that had shaped countless generations of their people. They had once dined with men and gods alike, had once swept like wildfire as one burning soul, driven by the greatness that flowed in their veins. It was their fate - his, Ubba's, Halfdan's - to live and die in such glory that their names would be sung even in the halls of Valhalla. Their seats at Odin's table had been reserved since their births. 

He released a bitter, mirthless laugh into the smoke-heavy air. Here, in this backwater land of England, would the doors of Valhalla be out of reach? Were he and his brothers fated to die here, only to never find their way back home? 

No. No, he couldn't accept that. Ivarr Ragnarsson had earned his warrior's death and he would have it, Ubba by his side or not. 

His wandering led him to a storehouse at the edge of the town, thin wood walls beneath a crumbling parapet. Perhaps a fitting monument to these Saxons' attempt at architecture, but in that moment Ivarr cared not. The battle fire had fled his blood. He was tired, thirsty, and he wanted a place to lay his head. A warm pig belly would have suited him just fine. 

Yet he was in luck, for the storehouse was not home to livestock, but to a decent reserve of wine. Left, most like, for the fyrs and archers on guard at the fortress walls. Now dead, and so the spoils belonged to the victors. Scanning the barrels on the shelf before him, Ivarr's mood was noticeably improved. 

He made an effort to wipe his axe clean on a nearby linen sack, before sinking it into the first of the casks. Wood splintered around the blade, opening a gash large enough for the wine to flow free. It was a deep red-purple and smelled strongly of unfamiliar herbs. Splashed like blood onto the stone floor below, and began to pool there, a tempting, decedant sight in lieu of a proper feast. Ivarr snatched his horn from his belt, knocked it clean against his thigh, and held it under the flowing cask until the wine began to spill out over the rim. 

"Skal," he cheered half-heartedly to the empty storeroom, before tipping the horn against his lips. 

Sour liquid whet his tongue, his throat, going down smoother than the local mead to warm him from the inside out. _Sweet, faithful wine. At least_ you _never disappoint me._ He drained the draught in seconds. Cleared his throat as he filled a second. Then a third. Fast enough to fill his belly before the effects had him teetering in place. 

The battle, the stinking town, _Ubba_ , the great turd - these things faded gradually to the periphery, futher and further with every fresh sip. When the first cask's flow slowed to a trickle, Ivarr hacked the lid off the barrel beside it. Wine drenched the floor around him, soaked into the leathers of his boots and stained the hay scattered around the room. _Dark as blood, but only half as sweet,_ he found himself laughing. Then the walls spun and he was on his bottom, neither hurt nor disoriented, but simply really fucking amused by the state of the world. 

"Norsemen in England! Danes in the church! Sheep and wine and Saxon swine! Burn, burn to the ground!" he sang, off key and off beat, laughing between every nonsensical verse. "Kill them all, kill them fast! Let me put my--" He paused, grinned lecherously at nothing in particular. " _My axe_ up their ass! Hah!" 

The howls that followed fell on deaf ears, until, as the stars at last faded overhead, Ivarr's laughter turned to silence and finally snores. 


	2. Crumbling Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivarr's introduction to the newest member of the camp goes as well as can be expected, but the rift between the brothers is growing ever wider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ivarr hates Tonna. Tonna hates Ivarr. Their bickering fuels my soul. 
> 
> Also… I still haven't finished the game, but I did finish the Sciropsescire arc. My heart is shattererd. Please mind any spoiler warnings in upcoming chapters (I'll be sure to tag for them)

His head was  _ pounding _ . Still thrumming as if he'd been trampled by an entire herd of cattle in the night. A rather large herd, and one that had also apparently shat in his mouth on the way through. 

With a pained groan he rolled himself onto his side. Hard stones had left him bruised all over, shivering with cold as he heaved the contents of his stomach onto the already sour-smelling floor. The contents being, of course, mostly wine, he noticed with another retch. Fine. So this hadn't been his best night. But it wasn't his worst, either, by far. He'd live through it. Probably. Just needed some water and a good piss.. 

Staggering to his feet, he allowed a few moments for the storeroom walls to stop spinning so wildly. Then he tested a few unbalanced steps toward the door. Paused to knock the ringing from his ear, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand before stumbling out into the light of mid-day. 

Repton was exactly as it had been the previous night: a filthy sty littered with half-charred buildings, unpenned livestock, and the remaining corpses Ubba and the others hadn't yet gotten around to setting ablaze. The combination of smells was enough to turn Ivarr's already revolting stomach ten times over. He rode the waves of nausea while he emptied his bladder, and ultimately retched again in the very same bush he'd relieved himself in. 

A rough start to any morning, even by his standards. But, he thought, looking around at the alarming bustle of activity, at least he wasn't one of these poor saps who'd been hard at work since sun up. Dumb fuckers, hammering away at rooves and broken windows, patching up the chaos they had sown the very night before by their own hands. For what? Simply because Ubba had asked nice? They weren't planning to make a home here anymore than that old riverside camp the summer before. So why not leave it a smouldering pile of ash? All this effort seemed so…futile. 

And loud.  _ Really  _ fucking loud. 

"Ah! There you are. Odin's beard, Ivarr. You look like shit." 

It wasn't his brother, but that fact did nothing to soften Ivarr's reaction. He whirled around, instantly regretting the way his balance threatened to send him face first into a pile of pig dung. Biting back the bile once again rising in his throat, Ivarr righted himself in time to fix Hemmen with his hardest glare. 

Though, given the unusual pallor to his cheeks, the look was far less intimidating than he would have otherwise liked. 

"You don't say? I hadn't noticed. Have you come to worsen my mood, then, or are you just looking for a reward for your powers of observation?" 

At that, Hemmen faltered. Realizing his misstep, he pursed his lips lest he talk himself right into the challenge. "Uh, no. I bring a message. Ubba's been looking for you. Says he needs you to deal with one of the guards they captured last night." 

" _ 'Captured,' _ " Ivarr repeated in a mocking tone. "Go and ask my brother when he started needing help using the pointy end of a dagger."

"Er, I. Uh. He insisted on--" 

"I'm  _ joking _ , Hemmen _.  _ Fuck. If your skull was any denser, we could use you as a battering ram." A sigh as he waved his hand dismissively, if only to disguise the wave of dizziness washing over him. "Just bring me some water. I won't be much use to my dear brother like this." 

The water indeed helped. By the time Ivarr reached the red canvas tent that served as their base of operations, he could almost walk a straight line, and the headache that had plagued him since he'd woke had been reduced to a bearable annoyance. 

Yet despite the chill air and his efforts to sober up, the sight that greeted him within the tent was enough to leave him reeling once more in disgust.

She stood nearly a head taller even than Ubba, and was broader both in the shoulders and the gut. Her armor - an uncoordinated hodgepodge of pieces stolen or won from enemies past - suggested she might be a bandit, yet her plaited hair and hard jaw appeared more Dane than Saxon breed. At any rate, she took up so much space in the tent that Ivarr had to shimmy around her to make his presence known. 

Ubba noticed him at once. His eyes did that thing - the thing where they sized him up, read his mood, and judged him failing within the breadth of a single heartbeat - before settling somewhere in the proximity of his nose. "Ah, Ivarr. Finally. I was worried you'd gone out chasing ghosts in the night again. Good to see you're still in one piece." 

Interesting. Insulting him in front of their apparent guest was a bold move. And one, he smiled, which two could play at. "You wound me, Ubba. I was merely making the rounds, getting acquainted with the resident population." He shrugged, turning to regard the large stranger at his side. "I met just about every pig, sheep, rat, and festering corpse in town. But it looks like I somehow missed the prized cow." 

"Say that again, little man," the woman, curling up her lip, retorted. "Ubba. Don't tell me this slimy weasel is your kin?" 

"He is." 

"He reeks," she growled. 

With a dangerous smile, Ivarr planted his palms on the table between him and his brother. "What are we waiting around here for? You know as well as I the kitchens would be much better for carving up a choice roast." 

"That's it! To Hell with you Danes, and to Hell with your hacksilver. No amount of coins is worth putting up with this shit-for-brains!" 

"Tonna, wait!" Ubba cast a dark look in Ivarr's direction, then bounded around the table to follow the woman outside. 

_ Very  _ interesting. Guest or not, time was they ripped out tongues for less. This woman's attitude reeked of disrespect. She'd be a bleeding pile of guts on the tent floor already if he has his way, but Ubba…. First this backwater town, now bending to foul-mouthed captives? This, he lamented, was not how their father had raised them. 

Following the sound of urgent voices out of the tent, he found the two arguing near the stables. Tonna, the brute, had one meaty fist gripped around the reigns of a wary horse, while Ubba stood firmly blocking her path. They seemed locked in a battle of stubborn wills. Ivarr knew all too well how long this could carry on, and he only barely resisted the urge to sink his axe into one or both of them to be done with the whole affair. 

"Talk, talk, talk. Your voices could wake the Jotun, much less Burgred up in his castle of shit. Are you  _ trying _ to summon an army?" 

"Stay out of this, Ivarr." 

" _ 'Help me, Ivarr. Stay out of it, Ivarr.' _ You're the one who called for me, remember?" Striding past his stern faced brother, he planted his feet next to Tonna and made a show of peering up at her towering head. "And you, prisoner. Give me one good reason I shouldn't hack off your limbs and use them to feed the pigs." 

"One," she sneered down at him with ragged teeth. "You couldn't best me even if you tried, little weasel man. Two, if you want Burgred's yapper on a spike, you'll need my help. Four, keep talking like that and you'll find my fist so far down your throat it comes out the other end." 

Ah _ , _ foul-mouthed  _ and _ stupid to boot. Why was Ubba talking of paying this overgrown warthog instead of sending her straight to Helheim? "Need…is a strong word. I'd say I'm tolerating your presence right now at best." 

A hand on his shoulder guided him a few steps back from the fuming sellsword. Ivarr frowned up at his brother, but Ubba cut him off before he could protest. "Listen," he hissed in a low, serious tone. "She may be of great use to us. We caught her trying to make off with a wagon and supplies after the raid last night. Seems Leofrith hired her as a guard, but she holds no loyalty for Burgred or his men beyond her pay." 

"Perhaps they should have paid her in new teeth instead of silver." 

"You're missing the point. Ivarr, if we play this right, we can cripple the farm king's strong arm before we ever set foot in Tamsworth. Think about it," he urged. "Her knowledge of Burgred's forces is an advantage worth more than the coins she's asking." 

"...How much does she want?" Ivarr asked. Suspicion had him once again eyeing Tonna's rusting, dented excuse for armor. She certainly didn't look like she'd be worth more than a few coins. 

Ubba paused. "Four hundred." 

"Huh." Truth be told, Ivarr had no concept of the value of the local currency, and he'd never bothered to ask the going rate for livestock. The money made little difference to him. "Can she even fight?"

The reins fell from Tonna's fist as she drew herself up to full height before them. The scowl she wore now was less annoyance and more wounded pride, but the challenge there was unmistakable. "It took half a dozen of your skulking hounds to bring me in, and that was with my hands full. But why don't you try me for yourself?" One large set of knuckles smacked into her opposite palm. "You and me, weasel man. I won't even charge your brother my usual fee for the pleasure of snapping those little twig bones of yours." 

Whatever Ubba said next was lost to the static of the fading background. Ivarr grinned, a wild, wicked grin, and his fingers twitched at his sides for the weight of his axes. Nothing would please him more. Fool of a mercenary. Snap his bones? Did she have the slightest idea who he was? 

"Snap my bones? You'll have to find them first. But by then, I'll long be finished carving my saga into your skull." 

"Oh-ho, I'm gonna  _ enjoy _ watching you bleed."

"Enough! Both of you!" Between them, Ubba held up his arms in a last attempt to broker peace. Solid, menacing, his dark gaze traveling from Ivarr to Tonna and back again in a way that very much reminded him of their father indeed. "We'll give you six hundred, and the right to whatever treasures you can carry from Burgred's keep once we take it. On the condition that you tolerate my brother's arrogance long enough to earn your pay. Do you agree to these terms?" 

Her answer wasn't immediate. She weighed her options, spit into the grass, cracked her knuckles. Then, finally: "If you can keep him out of my sight, aye. Eight hundred's only enough to still my hand for today." 

"Done. Ivarr." His brother turned on him, hard brown eyes full of strain, of anger. "We'll have words later. Go, now." 

A rift was opening. Ivarr could see it, plain as day. A tear in the fabric of fate, the very ground beneath their feet shifting to rend the two brothers further apart. Ivarr saw Ubba as if standing on the other side, his eyes no longer readable with the distance between them. Choices made, blood forsaken. Where Ivarr stood, he could still hear the feint, distant trumpeting of the Valkyries, soaring over the coming battlefields in search of warriors to carry home. 

But Ubba…. He stood alone, in darkness. 

"...You and your fucking words." 

The vision of the deep, fathomless chasm haunted him as he turned his back on his brother and made for the comfort of the storehouse full of wine. 


	3. King of Pigs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ceolwulf has come to Repton to prepare to take the Mercian throne. Yet in the Ragnarssons, he finds both friend and foe alike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to get these chapters up faster, but I'm still too caught up in actually playing the game to make time to write xD  
> That being said, this particular chapter was a lot of fun not only because we get to see Ivarr playing with his toys again (implied shirtless because, y'know, Ubisoft likes keeping us thirsty) but also because we see the beginnings of his scheming with Ceolbert. Ivarr doesn't know yet what role his little potato prince will come to play in the future, but the dice have been cast.  
> Reminder that any major game spoilers will be tagged here in the notes before each chapter, rest assured <3

"You _always_ do this, Ivarr!"

A candle flame flickered on the crate between them, disturbed both by Ubba's outburst and a rogue draft of chill wind. The hall was a far cry from the cozy, hazy heat of a proper long house, or even the mild comfort a poorly heated Saxon cottage could provide. It was cold, smelled of a century's worth of dying men, and the frequent English rains dripped down from the ceiling where there was hardly any roof left at all. 

That was precisely why Ivarr had taken up ownership of the hall. Not for his own quarters, of course. He still preferred to lay his head on a lumpy pillow in a tent than the hard stone floor of this place. But he'd found the atmosphere perfectly suited his…other interests. Interests which Ubba had thus far suffered him to enjoy without complaint. 

Why, then, did he now suddenly change his tune? "I fail to see the problem. What do you care about a handful of Burgred's sneaking spies? I thought you'd be grateful I rid our borders of them." 

"It's not me, it's Ceolwulf! He passed right through this gate this morning." Ubba took a short breath - the smell really overpowered the nose - and gazed upward at the bodies dangling from the ceiling like so much butchered meat. A half dozen of them by Ivarr's count, though there had been more who hadn't quite lasted. Those he'd finished in the fields where they'd stood: rebellious, proud. Now, they were little more than feed for Repton's crows. 

"Ivarr. Are you listening to me? Ceolwulf thinks we’re down here torturing Saxons for entertainment." 

_Well_ , Ivarr scratched at the stubble on his chin. It _was_ pretty entertaining, actually.

"I've worked too hard to earn his trust," Ubba continued. "For now, I need you to play nice, too. Put away your toys, pick up this mess. Come meet us in the tent when you're done. Meanwhile, I will try to undo this damage you’ve caused." 

"Oh, fuck you," he scowled at Ubba's back as his brother turned to leave. The insult went unheeded. Typical, not even a _thank you_ for all his hard work bleeding these rats. It was beginning to feel like Ubba didn't appreciate his help at all.

Ivarr sighed, letting his fingers dance over the line of rope pulled taut before him. It led upwards from the pulley around which it was wound, hooked over one of the thick rafters that held up the crumbling ceiling. Plunged downwards, where it was tied snugly around the ankles of a thin-skinned Saxon man. The man's face was red and swollen with gravity and blood, but the dim light reflecting in the whites of his eyes proved he yet clung to life. 

For now.

Ivarr tugged at the crank of the pulley, checking to make sure it would hold. He drew his favorite dagger out of its scabbard, and let the blade dance over his fingers, his wrist, as if toying casually with a strip of silk rather than cold, deadly iron. "Looks like today is your lucky day. A swift and _mostly_ painless end, by order of your soon-to-be king."

The man groaned something - it was hard to understand him without his tongue, previously removed - but the sentiment was clear. A plea for mercy, some inane babble to his god. Certainly nothing that could stay the hand of Ivarr the Boneless, who merely rolled his eyes at the pathetic display. What he'd come to hate most about Christians was how they always died without honor. 

"A gift. From Ceolwulf, the King of Pigs," he said, as he sliced the rope and sent the man plummeting, skull first, onto the solid stone floor. 

* * *

Already the tent was thick with tension when Ivarr arrived. The sun was setting, and he would have much preferred to be picking at the bones of a freshly cooked hen in the dinner hall than squabbling over more of Mercia's nonsense politics. Still, this was Ubba's request, and he would at least make an attempt to put their new puppet at ease. 

Ceolwulf himself was speaking when Ivarr stepped up to the open tent flaps. 

"Yes, but you must understand the delicate nature of my position, as well. If I am to win the favor of the people - which, as you know, is the only way this scheme of yours will work - I must convince them that you Danes are trustworthy neighbors." 

"And how do you plan to do that?" came Ubba's deep voice in reply. There was neither anger nor frustration in his tone, but rather something akin to exhaustion. "We vikings have swept like a blaze across this land for years now. Even without men like my brother, such wounds cannot be easily forgotten, nor forgiven." 

"True. But in time, people will forget. Already some of your kind live among us, have families and roots here in England. All we need do is show the Mercian people that peace _is_ achievable, despite--" 

"Despite the dangerous ones." 

Ivarr entered the tent to a shift in atmosphere. The air chilled. Ceolwulf's shoulders drew back, his mouth fell into a grim frown. Ubba, too, folded his arms, and favored him with a look of suspicion. So much for playing nice. 

"The, uh, _mess,_ as you called it, is taken care of. Mostly." A thin smile, inappropriate for the tone of the room. "Nothing left to upset our Saxon friend’s delicate stomach, except for some blood that’s soaked permanently into the floor. Don’t worry, I put a rug over it." 

“Blood that belonged to innocent people, none of whom deserved to be...to be _tortured_.”

“Ubba, control your puppet.” He patted the king heartily on the shoulder, even as his brother from across the table shook his head in utter defeat. “They were hardly innocent, shit king. Burgred’s loyal spies, all dressed the part of peasants and farmers, ready to stick us in the night before we could so much as piss in their lord’s direction. Now they serve a higher purpose, as dinner for our beloved pigs.”

Ceolwulf's expression darkened. "Good Heavens...."

“I admit,” Ubba conceded, unable for the moment to look Ivarr in the eye. “My brother’s methods may seem harsh in this land, but spies would have undermined our preparations to assault Tamworth. We have picked our side in this coming war, as did they. They have paid the price for it. All the more reason for us to put an end to this soon.”

“Yes, yes.” The Saxon’s heavy eyes fell on the map in the center of the table. Wordlessly, deep in thought, he scanned the sketches there - crude outlines of ancient rivers, hastily drawn borders that made up the ever-changing face of the once proud kingdom of Mercia. Proud of _what_ exactly, Ivarr would never understand. But, at least for the time, it seemed a tense alliance had been restored between their factions. 

That had been Ubba’s purpose, and he regarded Ivarr now in some measure of relief. “Very well. I’ve heard a band of Norsemen, calling themselves the Raven Clan, ride to our aid from the south. The winds of Odin appear to favor our victory. I’ll see to it the men are ready to set out first thing in the morning.” He nodded solemnly, an unspoken suggestion that the three of them should prepare to do the same. “Coelwulf. Brother.” 

Ivarr watched him go. True, it was becoming increasingly difficult to read the changes in Ubba’s moods and in his heart. But there were times - like this night - that the battle fires of the North still burned within him. They were both Ragnarssons. Glory was in their blood, inescapable no matter how far they roved from home. 

This meek, Saxon usurper, on the other hand…. He had no stomach for the battlefield. Probably couldn’t wield a sword any better than his cock. 

“A moment, please, Ivarr.” Pausing at the entrance of the tent, Ivarr cast his gaze over his shoulder at the would-be king. “I…, I have a request. It’s my son, Ceolbert. He is not yet sixteen winters, but I had brought him here in hopes that he might learn something of battle. I would ask that you take him with you to Tamworth tomorrow.” 

A laughable request, enough to make Ivarr’s shoulders quake with amusement. “Do I look like a wetnurse to you? If you’re so eager to see your son gutted, I can point you in the direction of the nearest bandit encampment.” 

“No, I--.” Ceolwulf faltered, his eyes once again falling to the map on the table as if seeking some guidance, some answers there. He apparently found none, and was forced to steel his resolve once again. “No. It is time for him to experience his first combat, before true war is upon us all. Your brother Ubba opposed the idea, of course, but you…. You seem to hold some sway over him. Please, I would ask you to look after Ceolbert, to protect him should--” 

“Alright, alright. I can help the boy wet his dagger if that’s what you want.” When Ivarr smiled, it was decidedly not friendly. There was scheming in the dark corners of his mouth, an opportunity in something Ceolwulf had said. _Ubba opposed._ Well, Ubba was hardly the only Ragnarsson in charge of this clan, and he wasn’t the only one who could tug the threads of puppet nobles to suit his own gains. “You picked the right brother for the task. There is no safer place for a little Saxon than on this side of my axe.” 

For a moment, Ceolwulf looked ready to snatch back his request. Then, swallowing his misgivings, he nodded. “That...I do believe.” 

Ivarr let the flap of the tent fall closed behind him, silencing the King of Pig’s hasty prayers for forgiveness up to his lonely god. 


	4. Scarred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivarr sets out for Quatford with the young kingling, Ceolbert, in tow. But more awaits them in Sciropsescire than a simple exchange of titles. For the demons that haunt the nightmares of a fearless viking are truly terrible indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand welcome to the Sciropsescire Arc!!!! Be aware that this is the last chapter without major plot spoilers, so tread lightly if you're still playing. I WILL be sticking to game canon here, as much as it hurts me, and I even have a surprise "choose your own ending" planned for the finale ;) So uhhh enjoy? I guess. Things are getting pretty dark from here on out, but if you've read this far, you'll probably be fine lol
> 
> (Also sorry for skipping over Tamworth, I figured we got to see that in the game and I just wanted to dig right into the crazy stuff)

The hills rolled for miles and miles, a verdant ocean as far as the eye could see. On the most distant horizon to the north, the world's brim: craggy mountains that rose up to touch the clear blue skies like the peaks of tidal waves. Here and there, copses of broad-leafed trees dotted the idyllic landscape, appearing as ships treading their way through grass and wheat and patches of wildflowers. 

Or maybe, Ivarr thought darkly, wiping the sweat from his brow, he just missed the sight of waters wider across than a horse's ass. Repton had been bad enough, Ledecestre even worse. But here in the untamed countryside of England's Sciropsescire, Ivarr was further from the sea than he'd ever been in his life. 

It left him in a sour mood, which in turn had left both himself and his riding companion in solitary silence for the last few hours. They'd followed the winding roads through the hills accompanied only by the rhythm of hooves striking the dirt. 

Thankfully, silence suited Ceolbert. The boy wasn't much of a fighter, no, but neither was he long-winded like his father, or nagging like Ubba. He spoke when he needed to speak, and otherwise seemed to absorb things around him like a newborn babe, content to take in the sights of the new land with genuine curiosity. That was one of the things Ivarr liked about the boy - the silence, not the curiosity. At any rate, it certainly wasn't the way he handled an axe. Or how he handled his mead, though he'd need to get better at both if he ever hoped to impress his Dane friends. 

Since returning from his brief stay with the Raven Clan, the young kingling had been a constant at Ivarr's side. Annoyingly constant. Like a stray pup that continued to dog his ankles despite the risk of getting kicked. He went riding with Ivarr, drinking with Ivarr, even asked Ivarr to spar with him at times (usually after he'd had too much of the mead and not enough sense left in him). What the little Saxon saw in him, no one - not even Ivarr himself - could say for sure. But to his credit, he'd managed to keep Ceolbert alive and, except for a few bruises on his rump, mostly unharmed. 

The horse beneath him let out an unwarranted snort that felt suspiciously like judgement. Ivarr cast a look down at it, then to his right where Ceolbert rode quietly beside him. The boy wore a thoughtful expression, his fingers loose around the reins in his lap, and he gazed quietly off into the distance where snowy peaks loomed in shadow. For a long moment he remained motionless, lost in thought. Then, as if sensing Ivarr's attention on him, he turned back with a small smile. 

"Forgive me for being poor company. It's just that I've never been this far from my home, and there's a lot to take in," he explained, ever honest with his feelings. He was always so trusting. _Too_ trusting, and his genuine nature had a tendency to throw Ivarr off guard. 

Not, of course, that he would ever admit as much. "England all looks the same to me. Trees, hills, tiny little churches, more hills. I finished taking in the sights the moment we landed ashore." 

"I disgree, Ivarr. There's something new and beautiful to be found anywhere if you look closely enough," Ceolbert, still smiling, replied. "But it's true that you've seen much more of the world than I have. Could you tell me about it? Your home, for instance. What was it like?" 

Rolling his eyes, Ivarr remembered why he'd been grateful for silence in the first place. Conversation for the sake of conversation pissed him off even more than talking politics. "Save your words for Quatford, boy. If you've got that much empty space in your head, use it to figure out what you'll say when this backwater bishop refuses to hand over your title." 

Blue eyes blinked rapidly in confusion. "What makes you think Bishop Deorlaf would do something like that?" 

"He's…a bishop?" Ivarr shrugged. 

A pause. Then: "No. He must be a good man. If my father trusts him with this task, then we can trust him, as well. He will be our key to peace negotiations with King Rhodri." 

Ivarr's horse snorted loudly, veering off the road as suddenly as her rider had tensed in his seat. The reins were yanked hard, Ivarr swore, and after a brief struggle both horse and rider were back on the path little worse for the wear

Yet beside them, Ceolbert's mouth was left hanging open in surprise. 

"W-what happened? Did something spook her?" 

"It's nothing!" Ivarr snapped. Around the reins in his fist, his knuckles were stark white and buldging. "What did I tell you about that name?" 

"Uh, I…?" 

"Warning!" His glare was cold, dark, full of seething violence as, clicking his teeth, he forced his horse into a gait. Speechless, Ceolbert could only watch him ride ahead, until the sight was obscured by the dust kicked up in his wake. 

* * *

_Ice battered the shore. Wave after wave of freezing ocean crashed against blackened sands, a desolate, lifeless place._

_Fitting that they should wash up here after all that had happened. The battle, the bitterness of defeat, the storm that had all but destroyed their remaining ships. As if no amount of running could save them from Fate, and all roads would lead them to Helheim in the end. Ironic, really._

_The others, of course, didn't appreciate his dark humor. And neither could he blame them for not laughing. After all, they had lost good friends, had stared Death in the face themselves, and Ivarr knew well how that could change a man. The fear, the nightmares…. And now this beach, where the hopeless came to die._

_Here in this unnamed land, where the warmth of the world ceased to be, they would all meet their eventual ends. No Valkyries would find them here, no feasts awaited them on the other side. A miserable end for a son of Ragnar Lothbrok, shipwrecked and stranded far from the glory of Odin's Hall…._

_But, wait. He strained his ears above the crashing of the sea to listen. A horn? A cry? The men, too, had heard it, began to rise from their prostrate positions in the sand. Yes...yes! Voices now, drawing closer beyond the edge of the cliffs that bordered the beach. Ivarr straightened his back, shouted for his men to ready their weapons. For Valhalla…!_

_A great beast crested the ridge. Broad shoulders, a billowing black mane. Eyes like embers beneath a grotesque crown of bone and flesh. He fixed his gaze on Ivarr. Bore right into his soul even as his warriors burned to ash all around. One by one screaming, crumbling, fading away like spirits in the wind._

_No. No, Ivarr growled in fury. Not again. Never again! The beast smiled, revealing monstrous teeth. NO!_

_White hot pain tore across his face, slow and agonizing in time with the invisible blade that sliced him open. Up over his cheek, cutting to the bone. Digging into his brow, splitting his head with such pain, such horrible pain. Across the scalp as blood cascaded down, blinding him, until, his vision darkening on the edge of Death, Ivarr awoke with a scream of rage._

* * *

Ceolbert had heard him, and was running down the hall without a passing thought to what horrors, what demons might frighten a man like Ivarr the Boneless.

The room was dark when he entered, not even a candle or a sliver of moonlight to illuminate the hunched form of the broken viking next to the bed. Nothing to alert him to the wild look in those eyes, or the way calloused hands trembled around the handle of a worn axe. Had he noticed, he might have stilled his tongue in time. 

"Ivarr? Ivarr, are you alright? I--" 

There was no warning. Something heavy whizzed past him, close enough that he felt the air shudder in the iron's wake before it sank into the wood beside his head. _Thunk_. His blood froze in his veins with the slow spread of realization. 

" _Out,_ " Ivarr growled in the darkness. It was a voice Ceolbert had never heard him use, low and dangerous. 

"I-I…." His own wary tone sounded too high to his ears. "I was worried y--"

"GET OUT!" 

He turned and ran from the room, panic sweeping his feet across the bone cold floor of the longhouse. 

Whatever darkness gripped his friend, it was beyond him - beyond any of them - to heal it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ceolbert is such a little sweet potato :')


	5. The Toll of Vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Face to face with his mortal enemy at last, Ivarr struggles to temper his rage with the sweet, sweet promise of a revenge well-earned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Spoilers for the Sciropescire Arc!* 
> 
> The showdown between the Boneless and the King of Briton begins! I realize the scene in the Quatford church isn't exactly new, but since it's such a _damn good_ scene, I wanted to retell it specifically from Ivarr's perspective. I really love how he's so agitated the whole time, the banter between him and Rhodri, and Eivor physically having to hold him back (I've never been more jealous of a playable character getting to put their arms around a non-romanceable NPC before LOL)   
> By the way, I couldn't decide between male and female Eivor, so I went with 'they/them' pronouns for our favorite non-binary viking icon.
> 
> Anyway, you'll notice a few cases of foreshadowing here (Gwriad's knife, Ivarr's indiscriminate bloodlust) so you can probably guess what's in store for the next chapter.... (:

Gwriad Ap Merfyn. The name rolled off the tongue like a mouthful of bile, and tasted considerably worse. He was a rotten man with patchy hair and sunken eyes, his frame too thin for the soiled silks he wore. More rat, really, than human, who had thus far survived in the world on his father’s name and money alone. Yet this man, this sad, pathetic excuse for a human being, was their best hope for getting Ceolbert into a throne. 

Far be it from Ivarr to tell a holy man how to work, but - here he paused to wipe blood from the sole of his boot - hostages tended to be more effective when under duress. Cutting off a few fingers, sending back body parts in wooden crates; these were age-old tactics for leveraging a life. After all, how could they be sure that fat fucking king would even bother to come unless he knew the threat on his brother’s head was real?

Not to mention how much satisfaction Ivarr himself would get out of draining this bag of bones dry.

"Excuse me, Bishop Deorlaf, but I'm not sure this man is in any condition to join us for the meeting. When King Rho--" Ceolbert caught himself, cast a wary look at Ivarr, and tried again. "When the king sees him like this, he'll be furious, and I fear we'll get nowhere with words then." 

"For once, the boy's right. We should kill him now and save the trouble" 

“That I cannot allow.” A short, rather round man, the bishop Deorlaf turned his conflicted frown first on the rough-faced viking, then to Ceolbert. "Young lord, I understand your concerns. It is...regrettable how Gwriad was brought in, to a house of God no less. I had certainly hoped for a more peaceable solution…." 

Peace, peace, peace. Seemed like that word had begun to go to everyone's heads these days, despite the reality of the world. Ivarr tuned out the conversation as it was already beginning to bore him. Instead returned his attention fully to the barely-conscious man kneeled at his feet, and considered his options while he appraised his wounds. 

_ One sprained ankle. Several cuts to the face. A very likely dislocated shoulder from the bindings still wrapped tight around his wrists. Bruises and scrapes concealed beneath bloodied cloth.  _ Gwriad hadn’t put up much of a fight when they’d ambushed his riding party, but he’d certainly proven himself a slippery runner. Hurt himself more stumbling over the rocks, the cowardly bastard, than if he’d just surrendered from the start. Even managed to prick himself with his own hunting knife, a gold-hilted blade bearing the dragon insignia of the Britons’ royal line. This knife Ivarr had kept as a souvenir, and now he danced it between his hands as he strode in a circle around the man. 

“How do you find the hospitality of Mercia so far? The wine is a bit weak, but you will get used to the other smells.”

Gwriad turned grey eyes up at him, and spat out part of a tooth onto the church floor. "Fuckin' Danes. You think you can just take our lands, punch your way into our castles. Rhodri will come for me, and when he does yo--."

Ivarr relished the feeling of jaw bone giving way under the force of his fist. A crack rang out - more teeth rattling from rotten gums, no doubt - and Gwriad Ap Merfyn crumpled like a straw doll to the ground. Silence filled the chapel. Both Ceolbert and Deorlaf had turned at the sound, and were staring at the limp body in a mix of disapproval and distaste. 

"What?" Ivarr shot them a winning grin. "He said 'fuck' in a church." 

* * *

Their father had always said that vengeance was a tomb. A slow death in the dark, like a sickness that poisoned the  _ hugr _ . Ragnar had seen it happen many times, in great and lesser men alike. He'd seen it cripple warriors, farmers, kings. None were immune to the whispered promise of blood for blood, of reclaimed honor, of insults paid for with the ultimate price. Vengeance made ghosts of them all. 

Ivarr had not forgotten his father’s words, nor the omens they portended. For so many years, he’d struggled in vain to put the wounds of the past behind him, to cover and hide them that he might forget what had been taken that day on the beach. What he’d lost, what he’d suffered at the hands of a merciless, monstrous swine. Yet whether under helm or beard, his scar remained a constant memento of his shame. It would not let him forget. 

And now…. Now Rhodri stood before him once again, nightmare made flesh.  _ Oh,  _ how Ivarr wanted to sink his teeth into the side of that neck, to rip the man apart with his bare hands until blood stained the very bark of Yggdrasil, and every creature in the nine realms knew his vengeance was won. Only then would peace be an option. 

“You are wasting time!” he shouted above the tense din of the chapel. The eyes of Saxons and Britons alike turned to him. Even Eivor, who had been speaking in hushed tones with the dark-haired queen, cast him an uneasy look. “I say we settle this now. You and me, Rhodri! No more pointless words!” 

“Someone get that foul-smelling piss-pot out of here before I ring his neck,” Rhodri spat in answer. 

His vision shuddered, went red. Ivarr snarled as he reached for the nearest thing his hands could find - an urn, vaguely Rhodri-shaped - and slammed it into thousands of pieces against the chapel wall. Dust rose, wafted, began to settle. Yet as he paced around in the corner to which he’d been relegated, his blood only quickened more. This was taking too long! Every second Rhodri remained alive served to fuel his rage, to scatter his thoughts. Already his patience was worn thin, and soon he’d be willing to kill everyone in the church if it meant putting an end to this fucking  _ waiting _ .

“Ivarr.” The voice was close, and Ivarr spun around to meet it. Eivor stood at his shoulder, their warm green eyes drawing him in, acting as a focal point while he steadied his feet. “...You’re agitated.” 

“I’m ready to gut that fucking bastard and be done with it. Why are we still talking when we could be  _ murdering _ ?” 

“Because peace is the only way Ceolbert is going to win this. You know that.” 

“There  _ will _ be peace. Rhodri’s head on a spike, and no more of this useless war. Everyone wins.”

Though Eivor didn’t smile, their expression softened ever so subtly in the candlelight. “You may not be wrong about that, but the people here do things differently. And you did give your word that you’d let me do the talking.”

“I said probably.” 

“ _ Ivarr _ .” 

“Just finish whatever it is you’re doing so we can get the fuck out of here,” he said, shoving away the hand that had reached out for his shoulder. “And don’t bother offering me that purse. I’m no fool, Wolf-kissed. Silver won’t stay my hand, not with him.”

Rolling their eyes, Eivor released the hefty sack back into their pocket with a telltale clinking of coins. As they left, evidently in search of the next hapless customer, Ivarr once again turned his attention on Rhodri across the room. The bastard was saying something to his general, his voice low and lips unreadable in the distance. Whatever it was, it had Ynyr frequently flicking his gaze in Ivarr’s direction,  _ smirking _ even, and  _ that _ was the strap that broke the horse’s back. 

“Rhodri, I see you mocking me!” Ivarr started forward, hands clenching into fists even as his feet carried him as sharply as his tongue. “I challenge you! Single combat, now!”

“Boneless Ivarr,” came the king’s sneering answer. “Spineless, toothless, gutless.” 

Ivarr’s hand fell to his axe, ready to charge, but Eivor found him first. Strong arms grabbed him, dragged him back away from the enemy leering before his eyes. But still Rhodri continued in his mocking tone.

“You cannot kill me. A dragon will be my death as my seers have foretold.” 

A dragon? Ivarr snarled, using his elbows to shake Eivor’s grip aside. The moment, however, was lost. Already Ynyr was stepping between them, ready to defend his king from another provocation at the tip of a greatsword.  _ Fuck! _ Only one other option was left to him now. Whatever the cost, they would not get their peace until Rhodri lay dead at his feet! 

“And your brother?” he shouted. “Does your destiny guard him?”

No one in the church saw it coming. Ivarr was too fast, the glint of his blade too late. One moment, Gwriad stood clutching his side near the pulpit, the next he was choking on his own blood on the hard stone floor. Shock rang out through the echoing hall. Cries, gasps, panicked feet scrambling for safety. Death, Ivarr grinned as he watched the twitching man’s life seep from his neck, had that effect on most people. Predictable, really. Exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for. 

_ This  _ was true viking diplomacy! 

“Kill the boneless one! Paint this chapel with his blood!” The strained voice of Rhodri himself carried over the clamor. His soldiers raised their weapons, closed in the gap, giving the king room to retreat. Battle cries sounded in the courtyard, more wails of grief, and then the doors of the church were being shut.  _ What have you done?! _ someone - Eivor or Ceolbert - cried out as chaos broke loose beneath the hallowed roof. 

Ivarr, pleased with himself, merely laughed, and dove with his axes into the fray. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned how much fun I'm having writing this? Join me for more Ivarr lovin' on my Twitter! @ Lhugy2


	6. Killer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chance for revenge against Rhodri seemingly lost, Ivarr must make a deal with darkness in order to ensure his place in Odin's Hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaahhhhhh okay so. This chapter took forever for two reasons. One, work is a bitch. Two, I struggled with how to do this scene justice. 
> 
> Ceolbert is....just too good. Sweet summer child. Undeserving of all the shit that happens to him. Ivarr is.... Well, I love him regardless of all the shit he /does/. But this still hurt me to write. Ivarr does care about his little aetheling son and no one can convince me otherwise! ;^; Yes he's cruel at times, and yes he's definitely unhinged. But he isn't without feeling....
> 
> That being said, on with the pain.

Dying flames licked at the ruins of charred, blackened homes. Embers flickered beneath heavy smoke, fell to the ground, and drowned atop the blood-soaked earth. Howls of anguish, of death, still echoed like music in the air, now the voices of ghosts singing for the halls of Valhalla or screaming from the depths of a Christian Hell. 

Among those slain, Ynry Ap Cadfarch, once proud captain of the Briton army. He'd fought well, Ivarr had to give the man that much. A strong left hook to match the sting of his spear, and eyes as fierce on the battlefield as any beast. He’d earned honor in his final battle, even if he'd shown little enough of it in life. Serving under Rhodri had been his first mistake; riding into  Wesberie to challenge both Ivarr the Boneless and Eivor Wolf-kissed at once had been his last. 

With Ynyr's death, however, had once again come about talk of peace. The soft-headed bishop's plan to reroute Rhodri's supplies and hamstring his troops had succeeded. Eivor seemed confident that the king would have no choice left but to surrender in the coming days. Sciropescire would be won, and Ceolbert made ealdorman. An ideal outcome for all. 

All except Ivarr, of course. As he leaned with his back to a standing stone, watching the Wolf-kissed and the young aetheling fish -  _ fish!  _ While blood still cooled on the ground! - he cursed these soft, whimpering Saxons for their cowardice. They had Rhodri by the balls with this victory! One more strike, one more blow to the stones of his tower and everything would come tumbling down. They should be rallying the men, marching on  Caustlow before the sun began to set. Not, he shook his head sadly, wasting time dangling their wicks around in ponds.

"Fuck," Ivarr spat at no one in particular. Was this how it ended? With his chance for revenge lost and Rhodri's head still attached to his neck? There was no honor in allowing an enemy like him to live. No. No, even throwing him down from his tower now would not be enough to sate Ivarr’s bloodlust. Rhodri, that rotting sack of feces, deserved an ending that would leave a mark on both of their histories. 

After all, they didn’t call him ‘King Killer’ for his forgiving nature. 

"Yes, I've caught one! Ivarr, look! It's even bigger than Eivor's." Ceolbert was grinning broadly, clutching in one hand the end of his line. In the other, his fingers gripped a still-wriggling eel the color of rotted leaves. Proudly, the Wolf-kissed chuckled at his side. 

"Bigger, maybe. But do you know how to use it?" 

They were both surprised when, looking up again, they found Ivarr already walking away. 

* * *

He'd wanted some time alone, to drink in silence and - what did his brother call it? -  _ brood _ . For once, he almost wished Ubba were here, someone with whom to share the sullen mood and lament the chance for glory lost. 

Unfortunately, he’d been forced to make due with a half-empty flask of wine and a view of the township burning at the bottom of the hill. Bodies, hovels, livelihoods. All had gone up (or down) in flames, yet the sight of the still-smouldering ashes did nothing to satisfy him. This had been an empty victory, one wholly undeserving of celebration. 

And so as he watched the smoke rise into the midday sky, he drank his stale wine in silence, and in anger. 

For a time, anyway. He was in the middle of a particularly good scowl when, unexpectedly, his brooding was interrupted by a pair of light boots treading towards him through the camp. The gait was unmistakable. Ivarr turned, not bothering to wipe the dark expression from his face, just as the owner of the footsteps reached him. 

“I’m glad I finally found you,” Ceolbert said by way of greeting. As always, there was a hint of trepidation in his smile when addressing Ivarr. “I was hoping you might join me for a hunt. The men say they saw boar tracks along the stream to the west of here.”

“First fishing, now hunting. Good to know at least one of us is enjoying the vacation.” Ivarr waved his hand dismissively, already turning back to his solitary lament. “Go on, boy. Have your fun.” 

“Ivarr, I…. I’ve been meaning to speak with you about what happened in Quatford. I...understand this situation is not ideal for you.” 

“Oh, you understand, do you?”

“You’re my friend, Ivarr. There must be something I can do to help?” 

Now he  _ did  _ actually laugh. A humorless, bone-dry laugh that had the young aetheling taking a step back. “The day I need help from a weak, whimpering little milksop like you is the day I cut off my own balls. You really want to be of use to me? Then fuck off.”

Ceolbert flinched at his words. Perhaps they’d been overly harsh for a soft welp still so new to the world, but Ivarr did not regret them. Even as the boy turned away, without so much as a reply, Ivarr was merely glad for the return of silence. Let Ceolbert go, he thought. A hunt, however fruitless, would cool his head, and in time he would get over the slight. 

Or he wouldn’t, and that would be just as well. Now that Sciropescire had its peace, the title of ealdorman was as good as won. Ivarr had no intention of sticking around for the swaddling ceremonies. 

_ Hmm. _ That, of course, was assuming some rut-hungry boar didn’t make short work of Ceolbert before he could be ensconced. Despite Ivarr’s best attempts, the boy was a terrible shot with a bow, and worse still with a sword. Having his guts spilled by an errant tusk would mean all of this fighting, all of the bishop’s efforts for peace, would be for naught. Sciropescire would be left leaderless, easy prey for Rhodri to come and pick at its bones. No doubt the Britons were hoping for just such an opportunity to-- 

A sudden idea flashed through his mind. A dark thought, fleeting, yet it cut through all else and left Ivarr unfocused where he sat on the crest of the hill. 

Below, the town of Wesberie continued to smoulder in ruin. The smoke continued to drift by overhead, caught on a breeze that carried with it the wails of the slain to their final resting place. But Ivarr…. Ivarr was somewhere far away. So clear in his mind was the scene -  _ trees rushing past, the gurgling of the stream; a familiar weight in his hand; the water, stained red.  _ A way, he smiled wryly, for Ceolbert to help him, after all. 

Patting his belt, his fingers found Gwriad’s trophy dagger still sheathed there. Ivarr pushed himself to his feet. Scanned the faces of the men sitting halfway to drunk around the campfire, and started off more or less in the same direction his favorite little Saxon had left. 

* * *

Either someone had lied, or Ceolbert was a worse hunter than even Ivarr could have anticipated. 

There were indeed tracks along the stream. Two sets of them now, but neither belonging to a boar - or any typical game, for that matter. Next to the fresh prints left by the young aetheling's boots, Ivarr had instead discovered all the signs of a pack of wolves. A small pack, only three or four beasts at most, but how any stupid fucking bastard could have mistaken them for a pig was beyond him. Yet Ceolbert had evidently fallen for the soldiers' ruse and was now off trailing predators rather than prey.

Ivarr spat at the ground. He hadn't factored this into his plan, spur of the moment though it was. Now he was going to have to rescue the little prince from his own foolishness before the wolves could finish his work for him. 

The forests of Sciropescire were dense, with tall, dark trees and a proclivity for fog that clung like a shroud to the earth. It certainly made tracking Ceolbert tricky. Footprints disappeared and reappeared between breaks in the mist, swerved on occasion away from the stream, then circled back around as the boy had found his way again. Further and further from the smouldering village, following uneven ground towards the foot of the rocky hills to the west. 

It was to Ceolbert's credit that he had managed to roam this far on his own. For one his age, still so unused to the dangers of war and the world at large, hunting alone here took courage. Never once did his footprints in the soft underbrush falter. Never once did they backtrack with longing for the safety of the soldiers' camp. Ultimately stupid, of course, yet Ivarr found himself almost proud of the boy's bravery all the same. 

Nearly half a mile into the trees, the trail of prints at last led Ivarr to the gaping maw of a cave at the foot of the cliffs. Inky darkness awaited inside. Yet what drew his attention was not the cave mouth itself, but rather the aftermath of a scuffle that littered the entrance. 

His brows drew into a knot as he crept closer. 

There was blood -  _ fresh _ blood - spilled onto the dirt, alongside hurried footprints and several deep marks left behind by claws. The heavy stench of beasts, too, lingered in the air. Foul, frenzied. Both the odor and the blood seemed to lead into the cave. Ivarr frowned. Had the wolves already made short work of the aetheling? No, there were no signs of a full out attack, or of a weight being dragged by hungry mouths. So Ceolbert had escaped the wolves? For how much longer would he be able to hold them off? 

Fingers tightening around the handle of his axe at his side, Ivarr snarled as he pitched himself forward into shadow. 

Low whines echoed off the walls of stone tunnels. Ivarr felt his way by hand, the light from the cave entrance gradually fading into blackness, and followed the foul combination of blood and urine that seemed to grow ever stronger. He was drawing closer to the wolves’ den now. The small bones that cracked underfoot with nearly every step confirmed he was still on the right path. Yet there was neither head nor tail of Ceolbert until, faintly from somewhere up ahead, he thought he heard a voice. 

“...ck! Back, I said!”

Ivarr began running.

“Stay BACK!” 

The aetheling was cornered against the far side of the den. In one hand he gripped a dying torch, the flames the only thing keeping two large, grey wolves at arm’s length. Behind them, a third wolf twitched weakly on its side. Blood leaked onto the rocks from a wound in its neck, where a hunting knife stuck out from flesh and fur. More of the injured creature's pitiful whines rose up to fill the chamber.

_ Not bad, boy.  _

The wolves sensed Ivarr's presence long before Ceolbert. They swung their heads around to meet his footsteps as he charged forward. Growled low in their throats, ears laying back flat to their skulls, yet this new attacker wasn't so easily deterred. With a downward slash of his axe the first wolf fell, its hind leg hacked clean off before it had the foresight to leap out of the way. 

The second scrambled across the stone floor, claws digging in desperately for purchase. As it righted itself again, Ivarr moved to put his body between the beast and the boy. 

“I-Ivarr?! Ivarr, you came!!” 

In answer, he snatched the torch from Ceolbert’s outstretched hand, and brandished it along with his axe in the direction of the wolf. “On my word, jump for that ledge!” he commanded. Already, he was taking small steps backwards, edging Ceolbert towards a narrow opening in the cave wall. 

“Wh...what ledge?” 

“Just get ready!” 

On the next step, something cracked beneath the heel of his boot - the tiny skull of a long-dead hare. It broke, shattering, and the distraction of the sound propelled the wolf into motion. It bounded, dripping maw open wide and teeth ready to sink into leather and flesh alike. 

Ivarr saw it coming. He brought his axe down, not on the snarling muzzle of the wolf but on the end of the torch instead. Iron struck like flint at the tinder and flames. Hot embers exploded outward, catching the wolf in the face, the nose, the eyes. It snapped its jaw shut at the unexpected pain. Hit the ground and skidded gracelessly into the rock, hard enough to knock it off its feet again. While it struggled to stand, still shaking its head desperately against the burning embers, Ivarr reached for Ceolbert. 

“Now!” he grunted, and all but flung the boy up onto the ledge. He leapt up after him, and together they dropped into the darkness on the other side.

Pitiful howls echoed from the chamber. Then, as the last wolf fled back the way it had come, its cries grew smaller, more distant. It would likely return before long, of course, and undoubtedly not alone. But for the moment, the danger had passed. 

Ivarr let his shoulders relax with the draining tension.

“Ivarr! Oh, Ivarr, thank God!” The force with which Ceolbert hugged him nearly knocked the torch from his grip. “You’ve saved my life. I forever owe you a debt of grati--”

“ _ Stupid!” _ He angrily shoved him off again. In the dim light that filtered down from an opening somewhere in the rock overhead, he could see the confusion, the hurt written in round, blue eyes. “Is this your idea of a merry fucking hunt? Well?” 

“I-it was an accident.” 

“Did  _ those _ look like boars to you?”

“Of c-course not. I….” Gaze falling, Ceolbert distractedly wiped at the flecks of blood that now stained his tunic. “I found the wolf tracks at the edge of the forest, and thought I could chase them off before they attacked the village. I thought...the people had already suffered more than enough.” 

“And what was your grand plan? Bore the beasts to death with your dull wit? Think before you leap, boy!” 

Courage, Ivarr knew too well, was wasted on the weak. The fearless fell as easily as cowards in battle without the strength to fight, and they won nothing for all their pretty words. Only deeds mattered - and without him, Ceolbert’s foolish bravery would have made a feast of his corpse. 

The young kingling merely nodded his head when Ivarr said as much. He knew it, of course, even without having to be scolded. "...I'm sorry for worrying you. It's a miracle you came."

Silence followed for a long while. Ivarr neither spoke nor moved to search for an exit from the tunnel they now found themselves in. Gradually, a different question began to hang heavy in the air. Ivarr could feel Ceolbert watching him. Waiting, perhaps, for permission to speak, to give voice to his need to know.

Finally, it was impatience that won out. “Why  _ did _ you come looking for me?”

The viking frowned into the shadows dancing on the cave wall. 

"Ivarr? Are you still angry with me? If it's about what I said at camp, I--" 

"Quiet." 

Finding Ceolbert alive in the cave, seeing him safe now after their brush with death, Ivarr couldn't deny he'd felt a certain…relief. Whatever his intentions had been when he'd first set out into the forest, he'd since lost the fervor, the drive to carry them out. Nothing left but a cold, empty weight in his gut where the fires had burned to ash.

Vengeance. Glory. His seat at the High Table. Was he really willing to let them go for the sake of this sweet, simple Saxon boy? 

"Ivarr, please. Talk to me. Tell me what I can do to repay you for all you've done." Despite the warnings and his own better judgement, Ivarr didn't flinch away when Ceolbert once again grabbed his arm. "I-if you want land, I can grant you a title here in Sciropescire. Or coin, as much as you can carry. You could even hold the highest position in my court if you like, and the freedom to come and go as you please. I...I just want to help." 

"Come here." 

A laughable thought crossed Ivarr's mind as Ceolbert, eyes stinging with relief, stepped forward into his embrace. Had that stuffy old Ceolwulf ever held the boy like this? The Pig King had seemed such a distant man, head too far up the ass of other politicians to see his son for the brave - stupid, but brave - young man he had become. Was that why Ceolbert had taken so quickly to the first father figure who had sauntered into his life? Why he trusted Ivarr so completely, so  _ blindly _ , that he never thought to hold up his guard for a second? 

"There is only one thing I want," he said, eyes boring through rock and stone now to see it all so clearly.  _ Valhalla. _ It called to him more loudly now than even the aetheling's heart thudding so close to his own.  _ A steep cost; another scar he would forever bear. _ "...But it is a price not so easily paid." 

"Anything, Ivarr. If it is in my power, you shall have it." 

"You give me your word?" 

"Of course." 

He steadied his breath. Let his hand guide Gwriad's dagger in the dark, the blade catching on the fabric of Ceolbert's shirt where it settled against his side. Ivarr's grip on him now was vice like. By the time the boy noticed something was wrong, it was too late to pull away. "When the Wolf-kissed finds you, be sure not to tell them it was me." 

The tip of the iron blade slipped easily between the slats of boy's rib cage. He barely even cried out as it pierced him, plunging through flesh and sinew to stab his rapidly pounding heart. There must have been pain. Yet in that moment, still clutching Ivarr's arms as the blood began to stream hot down his side, he uttered not a sound. 

Ceolbert could only gaze up at his killer's face - into cold, grey eyes clouded with grief - and let the darkness swallow him whole. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mah heart ༼;´༎ຶ ༎ຶ༽


	7. Dragon of Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Ceolbert dead and the blame on Rhodri, Ivarr prepares to secure his legacy with one final regicide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient while I slowly update this project. It's nearing the end, as I've planned out one, maybe two more chapters max. "Why two?" you might be thinking, based on how the arc ends for our beloved boneless vikingr in the game. 
> 
> Well, get ready for some revisions ahead :) 
> 
> (Not yet, though. This chapter was me just selfishly wanting an excuse to watch Ivarr kick Rhodri's ass with a stool a million times.)

Pain like cleansing fire ripped through him. Constant, intense, but he did not shy away from it. He  _ welcomed _ the pain, in fact. The way it suffocated his thoughts, drowned out all but the needle digging into his skin. The pain focused him in a way he hadn't felt for a long time. 

Rhodri's castle awaited him. Vulnerable now even behind its walls of mortar. Those would fall like all the walls before them had fallen to Ivarr and his men. Carried on the winds of Valkyries, fueled by wrath burning hot as the flames of Ragnarok, they would grind Caustow back into dust beneath their heels. 

And when it was done, Ivarr would face Rhodri alone. 

Years of torture and treachery had led him here, at last, to this final road. The sacrifices had been...immense. Blood yet stained his hands, deep in places he could never wash clean. All of it a means to this singular end. 

With this battle, his legacy would be cast in stone. Ivarr Ragnarsson. Ivarr King Killer. The Boneless. The  _ Dragon _ . Ready to fight even Death should it come for him. He would forge his path to Valhalla from the  viscera of his enemies, and ascend to Odin's halls more god than man. 

_ That _ was the vision he saw through the pain as the bone needle dug again into his skin. Through the bite of still-hot wood ash marking him for the battle to come, transforming him into the serpent of Rhodri's fears. 

Nothing, not even prophecy, would keep him from his prize.

* * *

"What the fuck have you done to your face?" 

Eivor had no sense of subtlety. Ivarr admired that, and merely chuckled at the Wolf-kissed's look of abject disgust. "Do you like it? It's a dragon." 

"I can see that. But...why?" 

"Why not?" He'd been sharpening his axe with a whetstone, but set both down now to join Eivor's side. Below, at the base of the hill, the men were busy with preparations for the siege: oil was being loaded onto the carts. Arrows were being fletched and bow strings tightened. Rations were passed around, with the occasional draught of firewine for courage. 

His tattoo was the last thing on Ivarr's mind in that moment. After all, he hadn't carved the thing into his skin for his own sake. Yet Eivor was still eyeing the dark ink - and the red, tender flesh surrounding it - in a mixture of curiosity and distaste. "I thought you didn't go in much for spectacle." 

"Eh."

"Rhodri's going to shit himself when he sees it." 

"That's the idea. Though he's likely shitting himself already, knowing he has all these Norsemen at his gates, eh?" Even from a distance, the helmed guards atop Caustow's ramparts could be seen gazing out towards their camp, preparing in their own way for the coming attack. 

Ivarr, smiling, waved to them. 

"You're leading this charge," Eivor said in a flat tone. They, too, were staring out at the thick walls of the fort, but their frown made it clear they were feeling much less excited for the battle ahead. "How soon do we strike?" 

"That depends." 

"On?"

Ivarr scratched at the reddened skin of his left cheek. "On how long we can stand to be downwind of Rhodri's shit." 

* * *

_ Flames I see burning,  _

_ The earth is on fire; _

_ And each for his life  _

_ The price must lose. _

_ [Hyndluldjoth, The Poem of Hyndla,  _ from _ The Poetic Edda] _

The ‘impenetrable’ stone walls of Caustow had shattered like glass under the explosions. Fire still licked hot on the ground and on the bodies of those too near the blast to escape. It stank, reeked of burnt leather, charred flesh. Oil fumes still hung thick in the air. 

The long wait had turned the men ravenous for blood. 

Ivarr the Boneless stepped easily over the dead. They were nothing more than a means to an end, after all. Things with which to wet the appetite of his axe before the main course.  _ Rhodri’s castle _ , that was where the real battle would be decided; this...fodder he would gladly leave for Eivor and the rest. 

Shrieks of agony rang out in the night, coupled with the clashing of steel and twang of arrows being loosed from the ramparts. All sounds of war, music to Ivarr's ears. Wasn't this so much better than peace? Wasn't the crunch of bone more satisfying than chewing on empty words?  _ This,  _ he grinned wickedly, his axe cleaving right through the nearest arm,  _ was how England should be conquered. _ In the old ways of their people, merciless and brutal, the foundations of a new world built upon the bones of those who resisted. __

Starting, Ivarr thought, with its last remaining kings. 

The fighting below the castle gradually pressed inwards as Briton soldiers fell one after another to the axe. Shields splintered and shattered upon the ground, only to be crushed under the weight of vikingr boots. Ivarr led them forward against wave after wave of Rhodri's men, while Eivor, ever cloaked in shadow, ran along the lower ramparts, felling archers before they had a chance to draw back their bows. 

At last, the narrow roads ended beneath an arch of stone. Beyond, wooden planks extended an arm's breadth over a trench that separated the keep from the rest of the castle. Across the treacherous ditch of rocks and hand carved stakes, a drawbridge reared up in a final deterrent. None could jump the distance. Yet on the other side, hidden away while his men died fighting in his name, Rhodri cowered from his very Fate. 

"Eivor! Where is Eivor?" Turning his battle-fierce eyes on the faces behind him, Ivarr shouted again for his companion. "Someone get Ei--!"

"I'm here." Eivor hopped calmly down from their position atop the arched wall. Though fresh blood stained their armor in places, they otherwise looked no worse for the wear. 

Ivarr hardly cared. "That fucking bridge. Can you get it down?" 

"Is that a challenge?" they quipped, a grin spreading across their lips. "I'll get it down. Two arrows or less, and you'll owe me a drink."

"Wolf-kissed, you get me to Rhodri and I'll buy you all the ale you can stomach." 

"Deal." And with that they were moving again, back up over the hard stones of the wall to perch, very much like the raven for which their clan had been named, perilously on the edge. Within the fort, fighting could still be heard as stragglers from the Briton side were dragged out of hiding places. Like rats. Like cowards. Their screams echoed in the night air, adding fuel to the flames that burned in Ivarr's breast. The time was nigh. Soon enough, he would squeeze his fists around the neck of the monster who mocked him in his dreams. 

"Remember," he snarled, to no one and everyone. "Rhodri is  _ mine. _ " 

An arrow loosed overhead, followed as quickly as a breath by a second. Both launched across the ravine and struck the wooden mechanisms on either side of the drawbridge. There was a creaking, and a rattling of heavy chains, and then the massive gate was falling forward on its hinges. Down, down, until, with a deafening crash it landed on the planks at Ivarr's feet.

The castle, now open, was laid bare for the assault. 

His men cheered. From the wall, Eivor shouted in warning as a fresh wave of guards in green and bearing the Dragon of their kingdom came rushing out to meet them. But Ivarr…. Ivarr paid them no mind. He stalked right past their shields and their battle cries, caring only for what awaited within. 

His shoulder rammed the doors of Rhodri's keep with enough force to rattle the stones. Again, this time accompanied by a growl the likes of which England had never heard. Thrice he slammed his weight into that door, until he felt the wood begin to give, to bend, under his rage. 

Eivor joined wordlessly at his side. Together, their combined force was enough to splinter the dry planks around the iron hinges, and with a crack the doors flew inward. 

To silence. To calm.

There Rhodri sat alone, his back to his attackers while he supped casually on bread. His frame remained stoic, unflinching, as though he'd hardly even noticed the battle raging just outside the keep. "Ivarr the  _ Boneless _ ," Rhodri lilted. He glanced dismissively over his shoulder before once again returning his attention to his meal. "You make a pitiful dragon."

All the anger. All the years of torment and pain and mockery. All the fighting, the killing, the death that had brought Ivarr to this point, all of it boiled over in that instant. For him, the time for talking was done. No words could satisfy him, nor could any deter him from his goal. Not until they were spilling from Rhodri's broken face, bloodied and terrified, begging him for a mercy that would never come. 

Hatred steadied his breath as he reared back, scowled, and flung his axe right for Rhodri's cup. 

Ivarr was racing forward before the wine even hit the floor. 

At last, Rhodri got to his feet at the table. He reached on instinct for the sword at his hip, but Ivarr was both faster and more resourceful. Instead of a blade, he grabbed the nearest blunt object in his path - a small, wooden stool - and brought it up shield-like in front of him to block the first blow. Iron met wood, and Rhodri, caught off guard, lost momentum on his next swing. Ivarr blocked again, brandishing the stool wildly to strike Rhodri square in his chest. He lost balance, arms going wide and leaving his body open for a strike. 

Ivarr obliged. In a swift turn, he placed the stool back on the floor, used it to pivot his hips and kick both legs back with all the fury of a battle steed. The heels of his boots collided with Rhodri's chin to send him stumbling, reeling, the sword slipping from his grasp. 

Still, the bastard yet had some fight left in him. As soon as Ivarr whipped around again to face him, Rhodri was back on the charge. He rushed forward, met Ivarr's blows with fists of his own until they were locked in place. Grunting, growling, a pure battle of strength as both men struggled to overpower the other. 

They scuffled back across the room, back towards the great table where Rhodri's meal remained abandoned on its plate. Ivarr could feel him weakening, starting to falter, and so he threw the entirety of his weight behind a final push. 

But Ivarr wasn't counting on the king's cunning. In a whirl the room spun. His back hit the dining bench, surprise and disorientation knocking the wind from his lungs. Rhodri, the bastard, had tricked him, had twisted at the last second to use Ivarr's momentum against him. And now that he was downed, Rhodri wasted no time in raining blows to his face, his arms, his chest. 

Ivarr heard rather than felt the crunch of his nose breaking. Something warm trickled down over his lips, and he sputtered at the taste of copper filling his senses. And... _ wine _ ? No, that was new. He opened his eyes again in time to see Rhodri upend the contents of a pitcher into his field of vision. 

_ Wine! Ha! _ Was this supposed to insult him? Did Rhodri think this fight was over? That at the first chance, Ivarr wouldn't simply turn around and shove the entire cheese wheel up his--

" _ Ivarr!!!"  _

That was the Wolf-kissed's voice, booming in warning from across the room. Too desperate, and too late. He had just enough time to see it coming: the candlestick in Rhodri's grip; the flame flickering angrily at the end; that wild, furious look in those beastly eyes. Ivarr's last thought before the candle ignited his wine-soaked leathers was somewhere between  _ oh  _ and  _ fuck.  _

_ Fire _ . 

He'd never imagined it might feel like this. Unbearably hot, yes, and of course there was pain. But all of that was...oddly distant. Somewhere out beyond the sounds of his screams of shock, and of his body's instinctive flailing as flames licked higher up and over his skin. Pain was no stranger to him. Every scar, every nick, every broken bone and bruise and blister had made him into the man he was. The  _ vikingr _ . The legend. Compared to the cut of Rhodri's knife across his face that day on the beach, this pain was  _ nothing.  _

Valkyries sang out as Ivarr the Dragon rose. Up to his feet, laughing at the tickle of heat that lapped at him as gently as a kitten's tongue. Laughing at the look of absolute terror on Rhodri's face as he understood his prophecy had been made real by his own hand. Laughing as he scooped the candlestick up off the floor where it had fallen, and used the prong at the tip to stab out Rhodri's left eye. 

_ Kill him _ , part of him urged.  _ Finish this. End his life!  _ But that voice, Ivarr could see now, was merely the part of him that was still afraid. Why should he kill Rhodri here, in the comfort of his own halls? Why spoil the victory when he could  _ savor it _ ? No, Ivarr grinned as he threw the king bodily against a hardwood chair, knocking him out cold. 

Revenge was best when it was designed to last. 

"Bastard kicked me in the liver," he laughed through a throat parched by heat. The flames were dying now, and Eivor, expression hard, brushed out the last of them as Ivarr stalked past. "I need some fresh air." 

"You've won, Ivarr. He's dying. Why not put him out of his misery?" 

He dragged the back of his fist across his mouth; the knuckles came back stained with blood. "No. I've got a much better plan in mind for him. Join me, Eivor. I guarantee you will not regret it." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: hope you like your eagles with a side of blood! :D
> 
> *quietly* ....this is why i have no friends


	8. Saga and Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Rhodri defeated and his body on display for all the nine realms to see, Ivarr turns his sights on the Wolf-kissed. Every saga needs an ending, and only one warrior can live to carry on the tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning now - this chapter breaks with the events in the game. Namely, Ivarr survives. This was a specific reader request, but also, I just didn't have it in my heart to kill him again. Of course, that means...sorry, Eivor…… ;;; 
> 
> In other notes: Actually, the boss fight against Ivarr is hands down my favorite battle in the entire game. I hope I was able to capture Ivarr's insane fighting style and dirty tricks decently enough! As for the dialogue, I used a mix of the game script and original lines to (hopefully) keep it feeling fresh. 
> 
> On with the bloodshed!

The Blood Eagle was a tradition as old as the gods. 

Behind the gore and brutality of the act, there existed a deeper meaning: that a man, no matter how heinous his crimes, might yet reclaim honor through his suffering. To remain silent throughout, to bear the agonizing pain with dignity, was proof that he was yet worthy of entering Valhalla. Much in the same way that Odin All-Father, in his desire for knowledge, had hung himself from the world tree in sacrifice. 

He'd proven that courage in the face of death always deserved reward.

Yet for Ivarr, the Blood Eagle ritual actually meant very little now. This was England.  _ Christian  _ England. The people here lived in denial of the Aesir, and so no amount of valor could ever help them reach the Great Halls. There was no honor to be gained and no hope of redemption. Not for Saxons, and certainly not for Rhodri. 

Thus it was merely his own satisfaction he sought in slowly carving open the man's back. In drawing his dagger across his flesh, and in hacking at each of his ribs with his axe. In watching his lifeblood soak like rain into the thirsty soil of Manstone Rock. With every chop, with every scream that tore from the yet-living king's mouth, Ivarr felt vindication. And as he reached into the chasm of that broken chest to grant Rhodri his wings, he knew none would ever again doubt his resolve. 

Ivarr Ragnarsson. The Boneless, the Dragon. King Killer, Prince Killer,  _ God killer _ . Bane of all the Saxon and Briton pigs who squealed in fear of his might. 

"Enough, Ivarr. This is just cruel," came Eivor's harsh and sudden voice crashing through his thoughts. Ivarr had all but forgotten they were still there, waiting at arm's length from the grotesque scene. They'd wanted no part in the killing, they'd said; but for Ceolbert's sake, they had allowed it to happen nonetheless. 

Slowly, Ivarr stood with his hands and armor dripping blood to survey his work. "Beautiful, is it not? What a display! The gods themselves cannot help but be impressed, I think." 

"You've had your fun, but it's time to leave this place. Deorlaf will be expecting a report soon." 

"The gods are pleased, yes. Can't you hear them, Wolf-kissed?" 

The wind carried many things to the top of that rock: the cries of Caustow's dead and dying, the stench of battle and of blood. But if Ivarr listened closely, he could make out the faint chorus of the Valkyries as they rode between the corpses, searching for the honorable among the slain. It was a song that kindled the fighting fire once again within him. "Eivor, this is our moment! This saga we have written together, it needs an ending, here and now."

"It  _ is  _ ended. I am done with this place."

"A fight to the death," he growled, and yes, yes this was the only way. He could see it plainly, as if Odin himself had shown him the path. With Rhodri's blood still cooling on his hands, he faced Eivor and brandished his axe. "You and me. If I win, I am truly the greatest vikingr who ever lived. Come, quickly! The Valkyries will not wait." 

"You are battle drunk, Ivarr." There was something hollow in Eivor's voice. Something in the way they regarded Ivarr now, over their shoulder as they turned to go, that reeked of  _ pity _ . 

Ivarr had seen that look far too many times. He'd seen it in his father's eyes as a child when he'd been weaker, frailer than his brothers. He'd seen it that day he'd returned to Ubba, alone and defeated by Rhodri's men, the fresh scar still mangling his face. He'd seen their looks of pity, and he'd always resented them for it. 

But now, here, after he had triumphed at long last over his final enemy, he could not bear the scorn of one he'd considered a friend. "...He barely cried, you know, when I pushed that dragon dagger into his heart." 

Eivor, ever predictable, froze mid-step. "Who?" they demanded. 

"Poor little Ceolbert, of course." Ivarr smiled to see cold realization give way to fury, and anger bristle like needle pricks over Eivor's skin. "I held him, and felt his life slip away. So, so quiet…."

" _ No _ ." 

"Just a soft little squeal. Then nothing."

"You sick  _ fucking bacraut!"  _

"Yes! That's it, Wolf-kissed!"

"Murderer! You killed him! He was--" 

"Like a son to me, yes!" he laughed, half mad maybe with the voices of the Valkyries high on the air. He beat the blunt end of his axe, still stained with Rhodri's blood, on the nearest rock. "Come! Fight me! For Ceolbert, and for a glorious death."

The only response from Eivor's lips was a cry born of pure rage. They flung themself at Ivarr, hands ready to pummel him right through the stone and earth for his treachery. But it was not a bare-fisted  _ holmgang _ that would catch the attention of the Valkyries, nor impress the gods already watching. Ivarr had challenged the  _ drengr _ of the Raven clan to a death match. 

One way or another, he intended for it to be exactly that. 

Eivor narrowly avoided a slash to the belly as Ivarr parried their fists instead with steel. They leapt backwards, boots skidding on rock until they found their balance again. Just enough time for Ivarr to draw his second, smaller axe and charge forward, this time in a powerful strike at Eivor's head. 

In everything he did - in drinking and killing and living - Ivarr Ragnarsson threw all of himself into it. There was never room to question himself, to second guess. This fight was no different. Each step was sure, each blow meant to finish his opponent the moment it landed. Anything less, he knew, would cost him dearly. 

Yet Eivor, too, was as fast now as they ever were in battle. Even wielding that ungainly antique of an axe, chipped and dulled by the years as it was, they managed to keep out of the way of Ivarr's attacks.  _ Quick-footed and even quicker of wit, _ Ivarr grinned mid-swing. This was indeed a match worthy of Odin's audience. 

Time and again Ivarr leapt forward with his steel, and always Eivor dodged or parried his strikes. Once, he made the mistake of letting his momentum carry him forward and off balance. Tripping over his own feet, he landed, arms splayed, face down on the rocks. 

It might have been his undoing. For a long, breathless second he lay there, expecting the blow to his head, or his neck, or to one of his legs if Eivor intended to make him suffer. Instead, however, he only heard the Wolf-kissed's growl of frustration. "Stop this insanity, Ivarr! It is not me who should mete out your fate, but King Ceolwulf. Why must I give you the satisfaction of dying here in glory?" 

"Who says I will be the one to die today?" He laughed coarsely, feeling sand and dust tickle his throat. "You should not have given me a chance to recover." 

The angle was awkward, but surprise was on Ivarr’s side. He flung his smaller axe backwards as he jumped up to his feet, aiming towards the source of Eivor's voice. The weapon missed, of course, clattering uselessly onto the stones some feet away, yet the distraction served its own purpose. While Eivor was still reeling, Ivarr lunged forward and tackled them flat onto their back. 

He'd never been much for wrestling with his brothers. But Eivor, like Ceolbert, was smaller than him and lean. It still took effort to hold his grip on both of their ankles, and to stay out of range of their fists, but he slowly managed to drag Eivor, shield and all, right to the edge of the rocks. 

He grinned at the look of dismay in their bright eyes, before swinging them bodily right over the drop.

Eivor landed with a heavy thud onto the outcropping below. Winded, dazed, they made an easy target for Ivarr, who skidded down the side of the cliff after them. He overshot the last few steps, however. His boots narrowly missed grazing Eivor's face, and he went tumbling into the tall grass not far from where the Wolf-kissed's weapon had been flung. 

" _ Ivarr!" _ An angry shout, grunts of pain as Eivor struggled to their feet. "I'm going to  _ rip you apart!" _

They held their left arm tight to their body. A few unstable steps, their sharp eyes scanning around for their opponent or their axe or both. "Enough tricks! You wanted this fight, so  _ fight!" _

"A moment, Wolf-kissed. I want to ask you something."

At the sound of Ivarr's voice, Eivor whipped around, already scowling. But they stopped cold again when they laid sights on him, sitting calmly with Varin's axe laid across his lap. "...Get your hands off of that," they hissed. 

Ivarr continued, not hearing or simply not heeding the command. "Do you think you will meet your father again in Valhalla? Do you think he was even permitted into Odin’s halls? Or...was he dragged to Helheim a coward and a traitor, after all?" 

His words struck true, deeper than any length of steel could reach. Whatever Eivor said, whatever curse they spat at him in answer, was swallowed up by the most grievous war cry Ivarr had ever had the pleasure to hear. It was raw and ferocious, born of the rage of the very Aesir, and the sound of it resonated right down to Ivarr's core. 

With wicked intent, he timed his movements perfectly. He waited until poor, gullible Eivor was nearly upon him, until those fists were curling, ready to strike. Rolled backwards at the last second, out of reach, and thrust the borrowed axe into the spot where he had just been. 

Eivor never even tried to dodge it. 

Solid metal sunk into leathers and flesh alike. Deep into their side, where blood blossomed instantly across blue cloth, and dripped thick onto the dirt below. There was no doubt intense pain. Yet Eivor, numbed by fury, did not even slow their steps. They reached Ivarr with the axe still dragging along at their hip. 

Momentum carried them both down again. Blood, hot and fresh, stained Ivarr's shirt and pants as Eivor held him, unyielding, beneath them on the ground. " _ You know nothing, _ " they growled through reddened lips. " _ Nothing _ , Ivarr." 

He could not answer, not with Eivor's fists clamped around his throat. Fingers squeezing tight, nails digging in deep enough to cut. Try as he might to throw the Wolf-kissed's weight off him, Ivarr was no match for the furious strength he had awakened. 

Yet through bitter tears, the light that usually shone so bright in their eyes was beginning to wane. Ivarr watched, fascinated despite the pounding of his heart in his breathless chest. Watched as Eivor paled, as they gradually weakened. Watched as their anger subsided and a slow calmness spread over their otherwise fearsome face. 

At last, Ivarr could unseat them. He rolled Eivor onto their back, and gasped for breath even as it returned in painful gulps to his burning lungs. 

Death retreated. Yet only from one of them. 

The axe was still lodged in Eivor's body, which rose and fell weakly with each labored breath. It was a powerful sight, Ivarr could not deny that. This  _ drengr _ , this dying warrior of the Raven clan, had fought well. Easily Ivarr's match, and perhaps in another life things might have ended differently for them both. 

As it was, he sank to his knees next to Eivor out of respect.

"Here," he wheezed, ignoring the way his throat ached inside and out, and yanked the weapon from Eivor's torso. An angry river of dark red gushed forth in its wake.  _ Good _ , he thought. It would be swifter this way. "Valhalla awaits you, Wolf-kissed." 

A cough, and blood leaked from the sides of Eivor's mouth. As Ivarr helped, their fingers grasped weakly for their father's axe. " _ Bacraut _ ," they choked. "Because of you…Ceolbert...Rhodri…."

" _ Shh.  _ What is done is done. Listen now, Eivor. Can you hear? The Valkyries come for you." He patted their hand, held it closed around the wooden handle of their weapon upon their breast. "Your saga will be sung in every hall from England to Norway and beyond. Go in glory,  _ drengr."  _

" _ Ivarr…!"  _

He did not turn back. He did not wait to see Eivor die, just as he had not waited for Ceolbert. There was no need. It was simply another death, another fight in which he, Ivarr son of Ragnar, had emerged the victor. Stronger than his father, stronger than his brothers. Stronger than all the kings of England and the seasoned warriors of the winter lands. 

Now, more than ever, he was certain of it; he  _ was  _ the greatest viking to ever live. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry Eivor ;^; 
> 
> Thanks for reading this far! Please stick around for the epilogue!!


	9. Epilogue - Drengiligr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three brothers, all sons of the legendary Ragnar Lothbrok, return together to the place where their father was slain. One seeking approval, one seeking peace, and one - Ivarr - seeking nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per a very supportive (and patient) reader's request, this part of Ivarr's story ends with a return to the beginning of it all: the snake pit. Fortunately, my slow writing was timed perfectly with Ubisoft's most recent update, which gave us a look at Ragnar's last moments as well as a chance to claim his legendary dagger as loot. How could I resist the temptation to add that detail here, as well? ;)

It was a cold fall morning by English standards. Mist clung to the trees and grass, disturbed only by the occasional squirrel or hare hurrying from their burrow in search of a meal. Even the sky high above the canopy overhead was grey, sunless, heavy with the ever-present threat of rain. 

Yet for the three who marched now in silence through these somber woods, the fog upon the ground was nothing compared to the gravity of their shared loss. To the weight of memories that hung on them like the legacy they had each inherited. To the life and death that united them, the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok, at this pit where their legendary father had been slain. 

Years had passed since that fateful day. Ivarr could almost make out the faint hissing of snakes and the fearless vengeance his father had sworn even as his blood boiled with venom. He’d certainly heard the story enough times to imagine he had truly been there, watching helpless as the strongest man he’d ever known was tricked by a cowardly king. 

Aella had murdered Ragnar, yes, and he had ultimately paid for it in blood. Against all of his enemy’s sons, what chance had Northumbria, nay, all of England stood? Ivarr had killed the bastard king himself. Had flayed him open like the fattened beast he was, and laughed as his lonely Christian god denied him salvation. 

And yet, for each of them - for Ivarr, for Ubba, for Halfdan, and for their brothers back home - it had marked the beginning of a new saga. Where the tale of Ragnar Lothbrok ended, their own stories could at last be written. Each one of them had been destined from birth to aspire to greatness. Each of them had won more than even their father had set out to claim. 

Halfdan, famously, had raised his hammer against Saxon and Pict alike, and was now king of the northern lands. Ubba, for all his political games, had all-but conquered Mercia under a web of puppet rulers. And Ivarr…. 

Well, Ivarr had more stories than either of them combined. 

Boots scuffed to a halt on worn stone, the only sounds in the otherwise still forest. The three brothers stood there together for a long moment, looking down over the edge of the snake pit that had become their father’s grave. Unspeaking, unmoving. Paying respects in their own way - and seeking, perhaps, some form of approval in return. 

At last, it was Halfdan who broke the silence first. “What would he say, you think, to see us now? To see all that we have achieved here.” 

“To see how old and fat we’ve gotten, you mean?” Ubba chuckled at his side.

Ivarr shook his head. “Speak for yourselves. It’s all that  _ talking _ and  _ farming _ that’s made you both soft, if you ask me.” 

“What’s wrong with farming? Father was a farmer,” Ubba reminded him - as if he needed reminding. 

“Father was also a warrior.”

“ _ And  _ a king.” Between them, Halfdan regarded them each in turn with a stern look. It was yet another quality he, indeed all of them, had inherited from Ragnar. “All that we have, we owe to his ambition." 

None of the brothers could argue with that. They fell quiet again. Gradually, Halfdan left them to pace around the rim of the pit, slowly, reverently, his gaze never leaving the shadows that swarmed in its depths. Looking for  _ draugrs, _ perhaps, Ivarr frowned. Or battered and broken bones. There was certainly nothing else they might find left of Ragnar down there, no matter how long they peered into the abyss. 

Just then, at his side, Ubba suddenly stiffened. "Hey. Do you see that?" Across from them, Halfdan, too, had paused in his stride. "There's something down there, moving." 

"Fuck off." 

"No, Ivarr. He's right - look there." 

Both pointed down into the pit, right into the heart of it where a glint of steel caught the dim light through the mist. Steel…. A knife? Without stopping for even a moment to consider the risk, Ivarr hopped down over the edge of stones and into darkness.

It was  _ cold  _ at the bottom. Cold as the halls of Helheim where the dead wandered. Thin streams of mist coiled around his ankles, making his skin crawl and reminding him of the snakes that had once been kept here. There were no snakes now, though. Just as there were no ghosts, no  _ draugrs _ , no signs of Ragnar Lothbrok. 

Except for that small piece of glinting steel. While his brothers peered down at him from far overhead, Ivarr focused on brushing away the dirt and ash that hid the unlikely treasure from view. It was longer than he'd guessed at first glance, unmistakably made of hammered Danish steel. The leather at the hilt was cracked and weathered. The runes on the blade had faded with use and the passage of time, and yet Ivarr knew it as well as he knew his own skin. 

_ Drengiligr _ . Ragnar's favorite dagger. He had hunted with it, carved little wooden toys with it, taken it to many a battle. Once, when Ivarr had been not eight winters, he recalled snatching it while his father had slept, and chasing his brother Sigurd Snake-in-the-eye all around the house. 

_ Ah, yes _ . Ragnar had been furious that night, of course, but it was a good memory all the same. 

"What is it, Ivarr?" Ubba shouted down at him, deep voice echoing off the lifeless stones to pull Ivarr from his reverie. "What did you find?" 

He drew his eyebrows together. Tested the weight of the dagger in his palm, and considered why he shouldn't just put it back where he'd found it. Better to leave the past behind, after all. Its owner was long dead, and its cutting edge dulled beyond use. The dagger was naught but a trinket now, serving no purpose beyond a reminder of their own family's mortality. 

"Ivarr?" 

"It's nothing," he answered sharply, and started to drop the blade back into the dust. 

Something stilled his hand. A fleeting thought, of a person who hadn't crossed his mind for many moons now. An old friend, one he himself had sent away to Valhalla, and who had also carried a rusted blade in honor of a fallen father. 

"Fuck you, Wolf-kissed," he grinned to himself. "After all this time, I still can't be free of you, can I?" 

Pocketing the worn  _ Drengiligr  _ after all _ ,  _ Ivarr shouted up to his brothers to fetch a rope. Fitting, he supposed, that he should be the one to climb out of this grave, when Ragnar himself had not. Fitting, too, that he should leave heavier for it, weighed down by the memories of the dagger, of his own past, and of Eivor. 

They were all of them stories. Part of the Saga of Ivarr the Boneless that would live on in legend long, long after the world's end. Even after Ragnarok swallowed all of the nine realms in flame, and Sutr laid waste to man and Aesir alike,  _ his _ name would still linger on immortal.

King killer. Raven slayer. Vikingr. Boneless, fearless, deathless. Valhalla-bound. 

_ Well…. _

As his fingers danced over the cracked, tattered leather of his new blade, he found himself smirking. He was not headed for Valhalla just yet. Not when there was still so much glory to be had right here, in this world yet ripe for the taking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all! Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this foray into the mind of our favorite bloodthirsty vikingr :D Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments - feedback keeps me going!


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